Queen of the Struggle

by Nik Korpon

  One of the younger workers comes up to me, waving his hand to get my attention.

  “There’s man who makes delivery and needs it put.” His accent is thick, his gesturing doing most of the talking for him.

  “What is it?” I squint and try to make out the truck but it’s too far away.

  “Says it’s curing pods?”

  “What the hell is a curing pod?” I say.

  He makes some odd gestures with his hands, like he’s trying to form a person out of clay or something, but eventually gives up. “I don’t know how to say. Where to put?”

  I fire up the hologram device, asking him to repeat the name in his language.

  It doesn’t sound familiar. I flip through the schematics, looking for a curing pod, partially to see what the hell it is and partially to see where the hell it goes. The kid looks at me impatiently, but I can’t figure out what he’s talking about. I’ll have to find someone who can communicate better.

  I point to a space across the field. “Tell him to put it there and we’ll figure it out. OK?”

  He nods a couple times.

  “Great, thank you.”

  He jogs back to his post on the far side of the field.

  Now that the kid isn’t here waiting for an answer, I can take my time in looking through these holograms and try to understand what the hell is going on.

  The initial ones are mostly land surveys, diagrams of how the plant will be laid out, the large central generator with smaller pods spread out around it. But as I get deeper into the files, I start finding schematics for the machines, detailed wiring diagrams, and power flow illustrations. It looks like the central dome generator isn’t actually connected to the auxiliary ones. That seems counterintuitive, even for someone whose understanding of creating energy comes mostly from listening to guys who worked at a nearby power station and drank at Johnstone’s. Why wouldn’t you connect them all?

  A loud bang echoes across the field. I flinch and reflexively look over my shoulder, irrationally worried that the insurgents overtook the high-rises and have mounted an attack. Then there’s another bang as the crane attached to the back of the delivery truck sets a smaller pod on the ground.

  I go back to the diagrams. The translation software on these devices can be wonky at times, but from what I can gather the smaller ones are the curing pods the kid was talking about. But how the hell do you cure energy?

  I thumb deep into the files until I find the central dome diagram. The interior wall along the top of the dome has a bunch of sockets that attach to something that looks almost like a range of showerheads, except these have small notches on them. No, not notches, I can see when I zoom in, but hooks. Claws. Like they’re holding something. That can’t be right. Because having hooks on the things on the ceiling for grabbing things would mean that the dozens of fasteners I see on the side walls, which at first glance looked like braces for thick ropes of conducting wires, would be restraints for whatever is being grabbed, not fastening wires.

  But why would you need restraints in a power plant? My palms start to sweat.

  The holograms waver as I scan through them, my thumb flicking in time with my pulse. I try to relax my eyes, absorb what I’m seeing and learn through osmosis, but I still don’t understand exactly what I’m looking at.

  Until I find a demonstration video.

  I hit the small triangle and the image begins to move. The narrator speaks in a tongue I don’t understand – apparently the translation feature only goes so far – but I can follow along well enough. The central dome is completely constructed, with all the wires and tubing in place. The camera moves through the small cutout window and inside the dome, where all the devices hang from the ceiling like clawing hands. And around the edge of the dome, held still by the restraints, are people. More than a dozen, all of them fairly young.

  What the shit is this?

  I glance around, looking for one of the workers so they can explain it to me, but everyone is busy.

  The camera in the video pans around the dome, showing all of their faces. They wear terrified, unmoving expressions, but their fingers twitch and curl so they’re obviously not sedated.

  “Hey,” I yell to a group of workers a hundred yards away. They’re in the middle of positioning a dome and don’t hear me until I yell a couple more times. One finally looks up and I wave him over. He starts to trot toward me.

  I glance back to the screen as he arrives and the devices in the video are shuddering and moving downward. Everyone’s eyes widen. I want to scream at them to jump, to fight, to resist. The fact that they never move is incredibly unsettling. It’s like they’re frozen by horror, but also accepting of it. The devices come to rest a few inches in front of everyone’s chest before sliding forward and pressing against the skin, leaving shallow puncture wounds. The casing around them vibrates, the small hooks clicking around the edges. The tubes that circle the dome start glowing – first a dull, barely noticeable color, then emitting stronger and stronger light until it almost hurts to watch. Then it all stops.

  And all at once, everyone’s head snaps back, their fingers stuck in rigor mortis claws. The space in front of their chest vibrates, but it’s impossible to see air vibrating. I’d normally say that’s just Henraek’s melodramatic way of describing something, but I can physically see the air moving. I pull the device closer and squint, and that’s when I realize that it’s not the air that’s vibrating – there’s something coming out of the people, streaming through the puncture wounds. Something invisible, but not.

  I drop the schematic device to the ground and step away from it, just as the worker gets to me. He picks it up and offers it, but I can’t hold it.

  “What the hell is this?”

  “A power station, ma’am.”

  “No,” I snatch the schematics and slam my finger on the screen. “This. What the hell is this?”

  He watches a second, then looks up at me, confused. “Committing ändes?”

  “It looks like this thing is, I don’t know, sucking something out of their body. Like, their, I don’t know, their soul or something.”

  “Soul?”

  “Yeah, like…” I gesture vaguely, so many thoughts and hideous images crashing together inside my head that I’m having trouble coming up with a coherent movement.

  “Ah, yes,” he says. “In Brusandhåv, we don’t have ‘soul.’ That is southern religion term. This,” he says, “this we call ände. Almost same thing, but without religion. It’s better that way.”

  I can’t do anything but stare dumbfounded at him. “Better?”

  “In Brusandhåv, we commit our ände in our thirty-fifth year. It provides energy for the country and is personal honor to contribute to that.”

  “Y-You,” I stammer a couple times, feeling my knees turning to water, “you give your soul to the party?”

  “Not soul. Ände.”

  “Holy shit.” I crouch down on my knees. My whole body has started sweating and it feels like someone is squeezing my head. They give their soul – I don’t give a shit what they call it, it’s the soul – to the party. Not metaphorically – literally. And just for energy.

  “It is a small personal sacrifice for the greater good of the people,” he says, like it’s a totally normal thing to be discussing. Then he unbuttons his work shirt and shows me his chest, his skin pale except for a dozen scarred marks that circle his breast bone. He’s displaying a mark of pride.

  Everything begins to telescope before my eyes. Maybe my brain is short-circuiting trying to comprehend what he’s saying. And then it snaps into sharp focus.

  This is what Brighid wants to do to Eitan. In order to bring us back online, she wants to get the citizens to give up their souls.

  “Do you need anything else, ma’am?” the worker says.

  My head snaps upright. I’d forgotten for a second that he was here.

  “No, no. Go back to work.”

  He heads back to the group of men, leavin
g me alone.

  My hands feel absent, or like they belong to someone else. The crane lowers another dome and the ground beneath my feet shakes.

  Brighid lied, and I was wrong. She is not the one we’ve been looking for. She is an abomination to the Tobeigh name. She is a Morrigan, through and through. She sees us as commodities, not people. We should serve our purpose then be disposed of.

  She needs to be stopped.

  I will stop her.

  No one else is around to save Eitan, so I’ll have to do it myself.

  23.

  HENRAEK

  After leaving my meeting with Ødven, I could feel everyone’s eyes on me. No one was looking at me, but everyone was watching. Judging. Following. Tracking. Waiting. Plotting.

  Through the streets of Vårgmannskjør.

  On the train, during the two-hour ride and three hours of delays, which, from what I’d seen, was incredibly uncommon and therefore absolutely appropriate for the day.

  At the central station, through the handful of weary travelers.

  Along the cold, windy streets of Rën.

  Intellectually, I know it’s crazy, but I can’t help but feel it: the ghost of betrayal floated behind me, tugging at my skin, wrapping around my arms, weighing me down.

  But at the same time, I feel lighter now, my step a little higher. Because I am sorry – truly sorry – for Dyvik and Magnus. Hell, for the people of Brusandhåv. But this coup is threatening to steal my son – my sons – away from me. I know Cobb will follow Donael to the ends of the land and walk on water if Donael tells him he can.

  I remind myself that Dyvik and his people might be misreading the will of the people. The people of Eitan suffered for years and continue to suffer on a daily basis. Most of what I saw in Vårgmannskjør was people smiling blithely, albeit vacantly, and staying warm inside the public assistance centers. Yes, they may be sedated, but sometimes not feeling isn’t such a bad thing. There are many people in Eitan who wish they could no longer feel.

  After hemming and hawing, and me threatening to walk out and give him nothing, Ødven promised that we would have transport by tomorrow. Still, I stop by the market on my way to our lodging to pick up some extra food. Since they’ve adjusted to the cuisine up here, the boys are eating like they’re never had real food before, which, I suppose, they haven’t. Not like this.

  The man behind the counter glances up when I enter. He’s maybe ten years older than me. I nod to avoid him suspecting I’m dodging his attention then try to keep my head down on my way to the cooler. The store reminds me in some way of Toman’s place in Macha, though it’s not nearly as ostentatious or gratuitously nice as his. This one, like the town and country, is dignified but austere, minimalist and considered. Though I’m tired of being cold as balls all the time, I have to admit that I like the lack of crap around here. Everywhere you go in Eitan, there are piles of stuff. Rubble, discarded furniture, abandoned cars, bodies. There’s shit everywhere, yet no one has enough to live. It’s one of the great paradoxes on my homeland, exacerbated by years of tyranny.

  Stacks of smoked fish filets sit on the refrigerated shelf on the side. I grab a piece of wrapping paper and a pair of tongs then pick out a few. In the reflection of the cooler, I can see the man staring at me, a sober expression set on his face. I hunch up my shoulders and grab a jar of the jam Cobb now loves and two packages of crispbread for Donael. When I pull a carton of juice out of the refrigerator, I can see the man is still looking at me. Part of me wants to continue to shop for things I don’t need, wasting time until he gives up. But part of me wants to rush over to him, grab him by the hair, and smash his face against the counter until he learns it’s impolite to stare.

  What I do, is take a deep breath, then carry my groceries over.

  He rings up my items while keeping an eye on me. I stare at the counter, feeling my jaw tighten.

  “I know,” he says.

  The spring trap in my fist sets. I swallow. What are you going to do if this man heard about your trip to Vårgmannskjør? You knock him out: then what? You kill him to protect yourself: what do you do with the body?

  “You know what?” I push the words through my teeth.

  “About you.” He leans forward and I’m ready to swing. Then he says, “I’ve known Dyvik since he was føga.” He holds his palm at his waist, suggesting a child.

  “Dyvik’s good.” I purse my lips and nod. “A good man.”

  The man sets the fish on top of the bag, folding his hands over my food. “He is a good man. But he doesn’t understand the way things work.”

  I reach for my groceries but his hands haven’t moved. He still has more to say, apparently.

  “How’s that?”

  “He needs something to rail against, and Ødven Äsyr is an easy target. Years ago, all the lands, they were divided into small communities. It was nice that you had your own people, but communities are meant to grow. That meant the territory lines between people were always being blurred, which led to fighting among each other. Been like that as long as I can remember, everyone killing each other over some little parcel of land.” He gestures outside. “Once Härskare Äsyr was touched by Evivårgen and had his vision, he stopped all that fighting and united the people, made everyone the same. Same country, same rights, same land. Everyone was equal. Everyone stopped killing.”

  The man loses himself inside his head for a minute, revisiting those scenes that I never want to have to witness, before navigating his way back to the market. He pushes my bag of food toward me and gives a sad smile.

  “But you don’t have any say in your life,” I say. “Doesn’t that bother you to have someone hundreds of miles away dictate your actions?”

  “I have no say?” He waves his hand around the store. “I choose to come to my store or not. I choose to love my wife or not. I choose to be kind or not. Ødven? He decides policies and taxes. He does not decide how I live my life. Only I do that.”

  “That’s one way to look at it.”

  “That is my choice. Dyvik, Magnus, the others? They don’t understand that. But I hope they live long enough to.”

  I nod, I take my bag, and I head back to my family.

  My stomach sinks when I open the door and find the house empty. I call out for the boys but hear nothing in return. I focus on each step as I walk to the kitchen, telling myself to breathe and calm down, don’t let the panic creep in too quickly. When I set the bag on the counter, I close my eyes to sharpen my hearing and listen.

  Murmuring outside.

  I go into the living room and check out the window. They’re in the side yard, on the opposite side of where I’d come from. Donael is holding the football in his extended arm, the rest of his body turned away. Cobb comes running up, cocks back his leg, then swings it. His foot doesn’t come anywhere near the ball, instead throwing his whole body out of balance so that he tumbles down on the grass. Donael helps him up and gives him pointers before they try again.

  Seeing them like this, so safe and so caring, releases some of the tension in my chest. I appreciate what the man in the market said, and I know I made the right choice.

  I’m heading back to the kitchen to put away the groceries when someone pounds on my door. I snap open my hunting knife and hold it at my side as I approach.

  When I swing it open, I find Dyvik standing on my front step, red-faced and breathing hard.

  “Where the hell have you been?” he says as he walks past me into the house. He glances down and sees the knife at my side. “You going to kill me?”

  I swallow. “Pounding on my door like that, sure, the thought crossed my mind.”

  “I was looking for you all day.”

  “I had to take care of some things.”

  He reaches into his jacket and my hand instinctively tightens around the handle of the knife. Then he pulls out a small envelope.

  “They tried to deliver this to you a couple times but you weren’t here. I held it for you at the store to keep
it safe,” he says. “It came on the boat from Eitan.”

  I take the envelope from him, feel the energy emanate off it.

  “I have to meet Magnus,” Dyvik says, though there’s a hitch in his voice. “Unless you need me to stay here.”

  “No.” I slide the envelope in my back pocket. “I’m fine. Go ahead.”

  He hesitates, then nods, turns, and leaves. As soon as the door closes I tear open the envelope.

  Another piece of the same fabric, the liner. I unfold it and realize I’m actually holding my breath. Then I see the words, the letters written in her blood, and I feel the floor rushing up toward me. My knees slam into hard wood the same color as Emeríann’s dried blood.

  A barrage of images clatter against each other inside my skull. A thousand faces shifting and sliding over one another. The shit-eating grin on Ødven’s face. The peace radiating off the man in the market. The awe washing over Donael’s when listening to Magnus talk about Nyväg. The admiration and undying love on Cobb’s any time he’s around Donael. The surprise and shock on Walleus’s when I plunged the needle into his temple. The terror on Emeríann’s as they pulled us apart on the stage during what was supposed to be our most triumphant moment.

  I have no idea what expression must rest on my face. How could I possibly accurately summarize the expression of all things finally coming together in one startling moment?

  I think she might be what we’ve been looking for, Emeríann said. Her first letter was wrong. They’re going to rebuild Eitan.

  I have a sinking feeling inside my chest, knowing that I have given up Dyvik and Magnus for nothing. Emeríann and Brighid are guiding Eitan toward renewal. They don’t need my help.

  My head is pounding, like the skin is contracting against my skull until it will finally shatter the bones. What do I do now? Can I call it off with Ødven, say I talked them out of it and at least spare their lives? Or do I take the boys back to Eitan anyway, Nyväg be damned? How the hell am I supposed to work myself, my boys, and Dyvik and Magnus out of this without anyone getting hurt?